


An Unexpected Gift

by FictionPenned



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:29:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27342007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: “Goodness me, we’re not —“ the shopkeeping angel begins to protest, emerging from behind a bookcase with a tut of his tongue and an apologetically waffling tone as he folds down the arms of his eyeglasses and moves to pocket them, hardly bothering to look up at the intruder.Crowley smiles from behind his sunglasses, keeping his hands perched rather jauntily in the pockets of his trousers and his posture thrust artfully askew as he patiently waits for Aziraphale to notice him.“Oh heavens! You cannot sneak up on me like that, Crowley. I thought you were a customer.”Written for Fic In A Box 2020.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17
Collections: Fic In A Box





	An Unexpected Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [planetundersiege](https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetundersiege/gifts).



Indulgence is an inherently human plague, and though Crowley is not human, he has existed among them long enough for it to catch. The desire for it creeps in at the edges of the consciousness, seeps into the pores of the skin, runs through every fiber of his being. It is much like an itch that begs to be scratched without any sort of regard to the fact that doing so might cast certain aspersions upon the scratcher. Crowley is trespassing upon dangerous ground as it is. He cannot afford to weather any sort of significant blow to his reputation. Things already hang by a thread as it is, however, Crowley cannot seem to stop himself from wandering into Aziraphale’s little shop over and over again.

He knows full well that fraternizing with an angel — even an angel who is just enough of a bastard to be interesting — is a terribly reckless activity. Anyone could find out about the contact if they bothered to pry into their business at the right moment. Of course, prying itself is rendered a somewhat unlikely activity due to the immutable fact that all of the would-be pryees hail from parties that are full of self-obsessed, brown-nosing good-for-nothings, but the threat still lurks just over Crowley’s shoulder, dogging his every step. The demon tries his best to dispel it with a snake-like crick of his neck and a roll of his shoulders, but still, it lingers on.

After a moment’s pause, he enters the shop with a certain feigned swagger, throwing open the door and stepping over the threshold with no small degree of authority. The merry tinkling of a bell heralds his arrival.

“Goodness me, we’re not —“ the shopkeeping angel begins to protest, emerging from behind a bookcase with a tut of his tongue and an apologetically waffling tone as he folds down the arms of his eyeglasses and moves to pocket them, hardly bothering to look up at the intruder.

Crowley smiles from behind his sunglasses, keeping his hands perched rather jauntily in the pockets of his trousers and his posture thrust artfully askew as he patiently waits for Aziraphale to notice him.

“Oh heavens! You cannot sneak up on me like that, Crowley. I thought you were a customer.”

“I’m still surprised you get customers,” Crowley comments. He takes a couple of steps forward as he runs his eyes over the weathered spines and worn titles of the books shelved nearest the door. “Don’t you have a stubborn habit of refusing to sell things?”

An embarrassed flush colors Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Only the rare ones! Anything on the tables is fair game.”

Crowley casts his eyes about the shop. There are very few tables. “One would think you’ve never heard of a library, angel.”

Aziraphale huffs. “I’ll have you know that I did consider it, but then I would have to issue cards and charge fines and trust that people will return things on time and that all sounds like a rather terrible headache, if I am to be quite honest.”

Crowley hums in reply, purposefully avoiding an argument. “Suit yourself.”

The demon pivots on one foot, pulling his tinted glasses down the bridge of his nose to better eye his friend through his slitted pupils. “Are we still on for tonight?”

Befuddlement descends upon Aziraphale’s features. “Tonight?”

Crowley sighs — a dramatic, theatrical, dropped anvil of a sigh. “The concert in the park. You were going to come with me.”

It takes the angel a painfully long moment to place the thought, but once he manages it, his eyes go suddenly wide. “Goodness me, is that tonight?”

“Obviously.” A booted toe taps the floor impatiently, disguising a very real fear of rejection. “You haven’t replaced me, have you? You’re not popping off to eat crepes with somebody else?”

“Never,” Aziraphale says, straightening his spine as he rises to his own defense like a puffed up, rather indignant pigeon. “I just need a moment to gather my things and then we’ll be off.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow as he shoves his glasses back up his nose, once again hiding his eyes. “You need _things_?” he asks, slight bemusement lifting his tone and setting the words spinning off his tongue.

“Yes,” Aziraphale insists as he disappears behind another shelving unit. ‘Well — not _technically_. I have something I’ve been meaning to give to you.”

“To me?” Crowley cannot help but lean forward, drawn in by the promise of a gift. Demons don’t often get presents, and even if they did, he would still cling to a gift from his best friend with the same amount of enthusiasm that he carries now. He would treasure it, hide it away, protect it from potential thieves until the end of time itself.

Aziraphale emerges from between the shelves with a small box in his hands, which he hands to Crowley rather nervously and entirely without ceremony. “Yes, you.”

Reverently, Crowley lifts the lid from the box and gazes down at the contents — a single copy of ABBA’s Greatest Hits, nestled in amongst a bed of slightly crumpled tissue paper. Musically speaking, it is a gift that misses the mark entirely, but a lump still rises in Crowley’s throat, stuffed full of love and affection and gratitude. Aziraphale thought of him even in his absence, and in a world that so often feels devoid of sense and purpose, that single thought means absolutely everything.

Crowley doesn’t say thank you only because he is horribly worried that the words will inevitably become tangled up in sobs and tears and poorly formed declarations of love, so the demon merely replaces the lid, tucks the box under his arm, and coughs once to clear his throat. “Shall we be off, then?”

Aziraphale’s grin is so bright that it cuts through Crowley’s glasses and threatens to blind the eyes that lie beneath.

“After you. Demons first, as they always say,” the angel says, gesturing excitedly towards the door.

“Nobody says that,” Crowley groans, but regardless of the truth of the statement, he steps past the angel and into the street beyond, ready to begin the long, slow walk to the park, side-by-side with a companion who he adores with every fiber of his occult being.


End file.
